


Across the Everlasting Blue

by pantsoffdanceoff



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoffdanceoff/pseuds/pantsoffdanceoff
Summary: There's only one person who can fix the Citadel's Lift.They call her the Scavenger.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreshBrains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/gifts).



> _And yet, mayhap, because one night a meteor was hurled,_  
>  _Across the everlasting blue, the luck was with our world._  
>  \--A Song Of Rain by C. J. Dennis

Scuttling clouds veil the meat-eating sun, but there’s an electric crackle to the air, like the zing that goes down Furiosa’s spine when her wheel locks home onto to the steering column. Anticipation. Furiosa rolls the word around in her head, taking in a lungful of humid air, hot and acrid with the stink of burning rubber.

A car backfires.

 “...two vehicles that will have to be scrapped, three canisters of nitro, two hundred units of guzzoline,” says Toast, reading her ledger with a finger, “Which, at this rate, might not last us until the full-chrome moon.”

They both turn to look at Gas Town, flare-silent for more than a fortnight. Workboys scramble out of their way as Toast leads Furiosa through the aftermath of the latest skirmish. The bandits are getting bolder, and worryingly, more organized. Gas Town may have already fallen. She nods at one of the workboys still standing in their path. He’s slightly slack-jawed, as all the new ones are, eyes wide and worshipful.

“I’ll ask the Dag how her greenoline project is coming along,” says Furiosa, “What about the injured?”

“Went over that, which you’d know if you were paying attention,” says Toast, smirking at Furiosa’s wince. Busted. “Spike, Noz and Weal. They’d appreciate it if you paid them a visit.”

“I’ll swing by the ‘ganoshop,” says Furiosa. One of the workboys runs up to them, tripping over a stray rock.

“Toast, Furiosa,” says Led, bobbing her head, “We’ve got a problem.”

A misshapen lump of metal sits in the cradle of her hands. Led shuffles from foot to heavy foot. “One of their rockets tore through the Lift. The revheads can straighten the rest of the cogs, but this one...”

“Can’t we melt it down and reshape it?” asks Toast. Furiosa shakes her head. No forge at the Citadel. One of her jobs as Imperator was to trade for cast-iron parts with Gas Town, the only outpost with enough oil to melt steel.

“What about Barter Town?” says Furiosa, vague memories of tents and feather headdresses tickling the back of her mind.

“Beg your pardon,” says the workboy still staring at them, “But Barter Town ain’t been around thince I was a sprog.”

He holds up a hand about hip-height, maybe to indicate a small child. Whistler, she reckons his name is. He shrinks under their gazes. “Or, uh, maybe they’re thtill--“

“Go on, Whistler,” says Furiosa.

“She knows my name!” shouts Whistler gleefully, looking around for his mates, “The Immortan knows--oh, beg pardon.” He flushes darker under the layer of dust they all wear. “Back o’Bourke, thee, we traded with the Schavenger.”

Toast nods at him, tucking away her ledger. Whistler licks his unscarred lips and says, “If ith mechanical-like, she’s got it. I reckon she’s got what you need, or close enough to hwit.”

“Where can we find her?” says Furiosa.

Whistler grins, revealing missing front teeth. “Oh, the Shunken Shity.”

Furiosa volunteers to go. Or rather, she forbids anyone from going in her place. Capable had fumed in silence, arms crossed and shoulders stiff in the Gigahorse’s side mirror.

“I still reckon you should’ve taken the War Rig,” Cheedo had said softly, as they watched the wheelhorses gingerly lower Immortan Joe’s old chariot to the foot of the Citadel. The Lift clattered onto the ground, jumping with the force of impact.

“Too slow to outrun Buzzards,” says Furiosa, “And besides, how would the wheelhorses lower it?”

Without working cogs, the Lift could only work in one direction, and slowly, at that. If Furiosa were to meet trouble, well. They need the eighteen-wheeler to maintain trade.

The outcrops in question shimmer and fade in the shiny heat as she takes the low road, away from the dunes where the Buzzards trap their prey. Dust billows in her wake, blowing in her face as she slows down. The Sunken City could swallow the Citadel whole; many times over, in fact. Somewhere in the shifting landscape over it is a signpost to the Scavenger’s lair.

A billboard rises out of the horizon. Furiosa smooths the sheet of precious paper in her lap, matching the clumsy graphite scratches to the sign. W-E-L-C-

“Stop!”

The barrel of a modified shotgun points straight at her, with the impression of black, bulbous goggles and fluttering rags behind it. A distant crow cackles gutturally.

“Stay where you are and put your hands where I can see them,” says the voice, muffled but distinctly female.

“I’ve only come to trade,” says Furiosa as she sets her hands on top of her head. A bead of sweat rolls down her spine, the air thick and soupy. “Are you the Scavenger?”

The masked gunner doesn’t seem like a Buzzard, but a Rock Rider’s no better if more are lying in wait. The wind picks up, spraying sand across the dunes.

“Let’s see what you’ve got then,” the stranger growls, twitching her rifle towards the boot, where tanks of aqua-cola and guzzoline, zap packs and stick lead are lined up neatly, glinting shiny and chrome under the sun as Furiosa steps back.

A small noise escapes the stranger as she twitches towards the booty, and her gun wavers, just enough for Furiosa to spring forward, tackling her around the midsection.

The stranger yelps as she goes down, but recovers fast, swinging the long-barreled rifle like a staff. Furiosa just barely ducks the heavy stock aimed at her face before she’s thrown face-first into the ground. Snarling and spitting sand, Furiosa rolls them over before the stranger can lock her in a half-nelson, jabbing her hard enough in the tender inside of her elbow to make her drop the gun, kicking it away as she’s slammed back against the ground hard enough to knock the air out of her, as the stranger reaches up to--

To pull her goggles and hood off.

“Well, that’s just terrible negotiating tactics,” says the woman, the soft tendrils of hair escaping her buns at odds with her flinty glare and the grim set of her jaw.

“Are you the Scavenger?” says Furiosa, trying to work her mechanical arm from under herself, “Because if you’re a Rock Rider--”

The stranger spits in disgust and lets Furiosa up, which she supposes is answer enough. Furiosa checks her arm over while the Scavenger retrieves her rifle. A spring in the elbow is bent, but nothing a little hammering can’t fix.

“I have aluminum flanges, if you’re looking for an upgrade,” says the Scavenger, rifle slung over her shoulder. Her eyes flicker over Furiosa’s arm with a revhead’s hungry glint.

Furiosa shakes her head and shows the Scavenger the mangled cog. The Scavenger sucks her teeth. “I might have something. It’ll take some searching, though.”

“How much?” says Furiosa.

 The Scavenger scoffs. “More than a few zap packs. I want your headlights.”

Furiosa stiffens. The forge at Gas Town can melt sand into glass, but with things the way they are, she doesn’t want to trade away goods that can’t be replaced.

“There are six headlights. I’ll give you three now, and three when you find what I need,” she says, only for the Scavenger to laugh out loud.

“Oh no, the headlights are the deposit,” she says, eyes surprisingly soft with mirth, “I’ll expect two hundred units of guzzoline at the trade-off. Give me a fortnight.”

Furiosa returns to the Citadel empty-handed, and less all of her headlights.

The moon grows shinier, distant thunder rumbling, but Gas Town remains silent. The workboys are patched up as best as they’re going to get, while dust settles on the unused Lift. The Dag and her jackaroos show Furiosa their newest project, raining sweat onto crossbred seedlings. Better drought resistance, or so she’s told.

Rocketboys strike in the night.

“I’ve sent out two squads to flank them,” says Capable, as Furiosa struggles into her braces. “Toast has the wheelhorses preparing the siege engines. Cheedo is overseeing the pups and the grey.”

“The Gigahorse is still in the valley, isn’t it?” says Furiosa, stomping on her boots. She had left it in the shade of the main outcrop, under a dustshield. Even all of the wheelhorses wouldn’t be able to lift it without the torque provided by the cogs.

“Oh, no you don’t,” snaps Capable, grabbing Furiosa’s arm. “Listen to me. We can’t lower any of the bigger rigs. We have no way of bringing any of them back up until we chase off the rocketboys. We are sitting dugs already without you running in and providing another target for them.”

Freedom had hardened the wives, dethorned no longer. Capable, in particular, discovered that laying out the plain truth worked better on the former warboys than dancing around it. Furiosa says, “So who’s driving my Gigahorse?”

“Weal and Led,” says Capable, matter of fact, tightening Furiosa’s shoulder brace so it sits snug against her ribs, “But the point is: that’s not your job.”

Furiosa tests out the finger joints. “So what is my job?”

“We’ve loaded up the Silver Streak with all of our best. Whatever the Scavenger wants,” says Capable, as serious as Furiosa’s ever seen her, “she can have. We can’t wait that long for a working Lift.”

Furiosa couldn’t have planned the ambush better herself. Heavy clouds blanket the sky, the war cries of rocketboys bouncing off hard rock to mask their location. Pitch black as it is, she doesn’t dare to turn on her headlights, winding her way out of the canyon on memory alone. The Silver Streak was built for speed, not war. A direct hit from a rocket, and it’d be all over.

The billboard appears much sooner than she was expecting, the white letters ghostly and otherworldly.

“Hello?” she calls. There’s nothing but the barely audible squeaks of the night crows. Even the distant battle is reduced to little flares of color. She lays on the horn.

“Oh, Caraya's soul, honk louder, why don’t you?” snaps a now-familiar voice, lilting and accented. The Scavenger appears out of the darkness. “Bring all the pfassk Buzzards down on our heads.”

“Sorry,” says Furiosa, feeling sheepish, “But I really need that cog now.”

“I can see that,” says the Scavenger, nodding her staff towards the Citadel. Fiery smoke rises from the Wheelhorses’ Tower. “Drive up to the dish over there and we’ll make the trade.”

Furiosa drives in the direction the Scavenger came from, where something that looks like a giant bowl and a square of warm light awaits her, the Scavenger rolling a shiny new cog over Nimble’s mechanical drawing. It’s the right size and thickness, with the right number of teeth, only--

“It’s a bit light, yeah?” says Furiosa.

“Titanium,” says the Scavenger, smirking, “Lasts longer than your pig-iron.”

A rush of feeling goes through Furiosa, like taking off the arm after a long day, like a successful run. Relief. Furiosa nods and says, “The guzzo--“

A rocket bursts not twenty paces away.

The Scavenger yanks her towards the lighted doorway and Furiosa follows, only to remember the treasures in the Silver Streak.

“What are you doing?” shouts the Scavenger, as Furiosa starts scooping up armfuls of fine muslim and shoe pleather.

“Help me carry these,” says Furiosa, and shoves a tray of Dag’s seedlings into the Scavenger’s arms.

It takes more than one trip, leaning the items against a narrow stairwell before dashing out to the car. Furiosa’s dragging a heavy roll of dustshield when the world bursts into white and noise, slamming her against the side of the car.

Her vision swims, barely able to focus on the three Buzzards looming over her. It’s like her body is made out of both lead and wet paper at the same time, only able to kick feebly when one grabs her ankle and starts dragging her across the ground.

“You,” says a voice, ringing with authority, as Furiosa swings blindly, clawing at air, white static dancing in her vision. Everything sounds so far away. “Will turn around and leave.”

“I will turn around and leave,” says another voice, in heavily-accented Strayan.

Everything fades to nothingness.

Furiosa wakes slowly, feeling like she’s been run through a rather large wringer. She’s in a hall larger than the mess hall in the Citadel, all white with straight lines, ending abruptly in rubble. An entire wall is covered in words, not spider-webbed and puffy like on bloodbags, and not the cramped meandering of a wordburger, but neat and perfectly even. She tries spelling them out. D-O-M-E-S-T-

“Oh! You’re awake,” says the Scavenger, voice echoing slightly.

Furiosa nods, then winces. “What happened?” she croaks.

“The Buzzards ran off,” says the Scavenger, shrugging. She tips a water canteen against Furiosa’s lips before she can retort, “We’re in my base.”

“Just this room, or all of Sunken City?” says Furiosa, wiping her mouth. Her head aches less, so she swings her legs over her cot--apparently a row of pleather-backed seats. More hair has escaped the Scavenger’s buns, trailing down to her delicate collarbones. Furiosa’s close enough to see the gold starbursts in her hazel eyes.

The Scavenger just shrugs, so Furiosa wobbles gingerly to the set of double doors left slightly ajar.

“Wow,” breathes Furiosa.

If the first room was big, this one is a cavern. The space is maybe half the Citadel hollowed out, the walls again straight and angular. Her feet are drawn to walk down the wide corridor, lined on either side by behemoths three times as long as the War Rig and five times as high, each with huge, tapered wings.

The Scavenger just leans against a wheel well, a small smile on lips. It doesn’t seem right to speak loudly in the cathedral space.

“You know,” whispers Furiosa, her fingers itching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind the Scavenger’s ear, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Rey,” says Rey, smiling, “My name’s Rey.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Rey,” says Furiosa, “I’m--“

“Furiosa Concannon of the Citadel,” says Rey. She laughs at the look that must be on Furiosa’s face, “Your name precedes you.”

“Does it really?” says Furiosa.

Rey bumps their shoulders together. “Don’t fish,” she says, “C’mon, let me show you where I put your stuff.”

Furiosa follows her, still feeling a little perplexed, down the rows of stately vehicles, until they reach the last one, disemboweled and spilling its guts across the floor.

“I’ve been taking apart this one,” says Rey, “The bones are good, but parts have rusted, or stiffened, or crumbled with time. Did you know they could fly?”

Furiosa stops in her tracks, taking in the sleek wings, the streamlined nose. And yet. “No,” she says, trying to wrap her head around two hundred tons of metal taking flight.

“Well, come on, then,” says Rey, her head emerges from inside the cabin.

The six Gigahorse headlights hang on a cable, bathing neat rows of plants in shiny light, including Dag’s precious hybrids. The clothes lean against the curved walls, the rest of the goods neatly stacked. Something unfurls in Furiosa’s chest, something she hasn’t felt since she was stolen away from her sisters so many years ago.

“Thank you,” she says thickly, “For everything. How can I repay you?”

Rey stiffens. “Not everything is about price.”

Furiosa hesitates. How does she explain that to desert folk, kindness and generosity is more precious than water? That the same, freely given, is rarer than sky fish?

“Well, no,” Furiosa settles on, “Some things are freely given.”

Furiosa leans in slowly, giving Rey time to move away, brushing her lips against Rey’s cheek. Rey gasps, so Furiosa does it again, pressing a feather-light kiss to the corner of Rey’s mouth, until Rey turns her head so that their lips press together. And then again.

Rey’s eyes are bright, and her cheeks flushed when Furiosa pulls away.

“That wasn’t payment,” says Furiosa, her voice foggier than she’d expected. She clears her throat. “In case you were wondering.”

“Sure,” says Rey breathlessly. She runs her fingertips against her mouth. “I guess we’ll come up with something.”

“Come back to the Citadel with me,” says Furiosa, on impulse, “We could use someone with a good head on their shoulders.”

Rey draws her knees up to her chin. “Can’t.”

Furiosa looks around them, at the dark, echoing hall. It must be lonely here, with only flying rigs and the occasional trader for company. Furiosa wonders where Rey’s family are; if they’d met the same fate as Furiosa’s own.

“I’m waiting for them, you know?” says Rey, as if she were thinking similar thoughts, “My family. They’ll come for me.”

“Where are they?” says Furiosa, before she can stop herself.

“Up there,” says Rey, pointing at the ceiling, crisscrossed with metal beams, “That’s what the radio dish is for, you know? Wide beam signal, tight frequency. Can’t miss it, you know?”

Furiosa nods blankly, but Rey perks up. “Hey, that can be your repayment. Visiting me.”

“I’d do that anyway,” says Furiosa, nudging her gently, “Not a payment.”

Rey nods, as if Furiosa had something profound. Furiosa snorts and rises, every bruise on her body protesting. “But that reminds me. I should get going.”

The Citadel would need repairs, and if there were still no response from Gas Town, Furiosa would need to open up negotiations with someone else for oil. There was no sense letting their reserves run down. Not to mention, the Wet was coming, and opening the reservoirs was an undertaking all its own.

She follows Rey up the staircase she must have carried Furiosa down to safety.

Surprisingly, the Silver Streak is still there. Even more surprisingly, there’s minimal damage to it, only a dent where a rocket must have glanced off it and maybe Furiosa. Fuel levels, tire levels, leaks--Furiosa runs diagnostics until she realizes she might be delaying leaving for the sake of delaying, and sighs. “Well, I guess this is me.”

Rey chews her lip. “I suppose you’ll need help loading your stuff back in the car.”

“No, keep it,” says Furiosa. It was cool enough that Buzzards might be on patrol. She’d have to take a different route back.

Rey freezes, and says stiffly, “I thought you said some things were freely given.”

“They are,” says Furiosa, squinting at the tension in Rey’s shoulder. She changes tact. “Reckon it’s a deposit for the lessons you’ll be giving.”

“...in?” says Rey, eyebrows furrowing.

Just because Rey couldn’t leave her Sunken City didn’t mean she had to be lonely. Furiosa says, “In how to fix your rigs. I’ll be bringing my brighter revheads, if it’s all right with you.”

The crease between Rey’s eyebrows disappear. She says, “Oh, is this your idea of repayment? More busywork for me?”

“Or whatever you reckon is right,” says Furiosa, “I’ll be back after the Wet.”

“We’ll see,” says Rey, leaning in to give Furiosa a light peck all the same, “Depends on how bright they really are.”

Furiosa waves at the tiny figure shrinking in her rearview mirror. She drums on her steering wheel. The sky roils with bruise-dark clouds, smelling of rain and promises. The valley is pockmarked with craters, slowly being filled with rubble by teams of workboys and wheelhorses alike. Already, the valley is blooming with multi-colored tarps, handed out so that the Reffo can help collect rainwater.

“Boss!” says one of the workers, raising an arm. It’s Noz, jogging up to the car. “Good trip?”

“Yes,” she says, and smiles.


End file.
